YOKOHAMA RYUSEI as KAWAMURA AINOSUKE INFORMA インフォーマ 2023, dir. Fujii Michihito

a flicker of recognition lights in ryuji's eyes as zakir unveils his observations. it shouldn't be a surprise; ryuji had even witnessed the subtle mastery at play in their meetings—a testament to zakir's keen perception. that shadow of understanding paints across his features then, working as his silent acknowledgment.

"the art of deduction," he echoes, a hint of admiration tinging his words. "a skill honed through trial and error, no doubt. and your special weapon," he adds, a knowing glint in his eyes, "a double-edged sword, i imagine."

as they near the diner, his senses awaken, the scent of food a siren's call that resonated with the hunger in the pit of his stomach—an orchestra of cravings that despair like a thousand starved wolves pawing at the ground. amidst the allure, ryuji just stands with a quiet patience as they waited to be seated. eventually, a waitress notices their presence and makes her way towards them, ready to usher them to a table.

Zakir didn’t think he’d get a question like that, perhaps he’s become too comfortable in thinking people understood the inner workings of his augmentation, the reason why he managed to do more than the usual translator, and could actually call himself an interpreter. It gave him an edge most others didn’t have, even if it had its fair share of cons as well. One of which being the lingering headache if he used it too long or too often, the fact that he couldn’t turn it off, and the need for tinted or sunglasses to help the world be less bright. He could not fault Ryuji for not knowing, of course, the capo must have enough things on his head than keeping up with the gang’s associates. If anything, he felt glad that at least his connection to the other was of a more friendly nature, instead of this being only business.

The diner was a street away, Zakir’s eyes scanning the road as they walked. “You have plenty of signs that give you away,” he said. “To a trained eye, that is, to anyone else, I don’t think you’re easy to read. But for one I have mastered the art of deduction Sherlock-Holmes style, and of course I got my special weapon.” Because he never mentioned the augmentation out loud to anyone, unless he trusted the area they were walking in. “I bluffed and you reacted accordingly, yaar. ” He chuckled. “If it wasn’t Haram, I’d be great at poker.”

The Diner neared, doors opening to let them in, the sounds of food being ordered, prepared, and eaten filling up the ambience.

ryuji, in his signature laid-back demeanor, couldn't help but crack a half-grin at the other's enthusiasm. whether or not it was a matter of his guard being let down in this moment, the stranger showed himself a kindred spirit in the labyrinth of the city.

"we're not really known for spicy, but i don't mind it," he comments, his words carrying a hint of contemplation. "i'll probably have to make you something myself, i haven't really found the spot yet."

a fleeting pause lingers in the air, a moment pregnant with the weight of his lack of decision. ryuji's half-grin softens. "okay," and at last he acquiesces, rising from the weathered bench. "while we're doing this, i guess i should know your name first."

Veer was feeling chaotic, perhaps it was the feeling of mutual understanding of the subject of this strange country they found themselves in, perhaps it was the fact that languages were shared and Veer was allowed to be wholly himself, perhaps it was Halal Guys. They felt like they’d made a friend, and friends shared food together, thus food must be shared. Jugaadu was now the nickname they’d used for this particular fellow, having no idea who he was, who he was loyal to, and what drove him. It was of little importance. Even if he was some high standing detective, the Hermit did not care. 

“You have not?” he faked a gasp. “Jugaadu, my friend, you have missed out. There is no food greater than Halal Guys, they have this secret white sauce that is to die for. Do you do spicy? I’m not overly familiar with cuisine from Nipon, though you’ll have to introduce me, if there are any restaurants in this city that have managed to bring the flavour of home. Oh how I know the struggle of that. I can count the Indian restaurants with good food that I remember from my mother’s kitchen on a single hand.” 

“And yes, right now. When else? Do you have anything better to do? The bus is not coming, our legs will take us places faster than those wheels will, Jugaadu, trust me.” Best not to, probably.

"i hear you," ryuji murmurs, his voice carrying a soft cadence. "it's like they take a perfectly good drink and drown it in sugar and cream. you'd think they're brewing dessert, not coffee."

at the same time, there's something oddly endearing about it. like a quirky american tradition the both of them never quite understand. finding humor in it all, the man chuckles lightly, taking a sip of his drink; the robust bite of espresso softened by milk. as his gaze wanders beyond the windowpane, ryuji observes the ceaseless ballet of life unfolding in the streets below. "even in a place different from home, there's a familiarity in the rituals of daily life. like," his eyes, alight with a quiet understanding, meet rakesh's, "sharing a cup of coffee and a moment of reflection."

the olive branch is extended, and the bridge is built. in the next moment, he raises his cup in a silent salute, a glint of camaraderie in his eyes. "so here's to finding comfort in the chaos, even if it means sifting through layers of ungodly sweetness to find it."

Rakesh remained cautious, despite the little voice in his head trying to remind him that there was nothing for him to fear here out in the open. Or even in New York City. His greatest fear was not that he would be given a reason to conduct violence, but that he would do so without having a reason. A fear of losing control that came so easily when there had been little to no caffeine around to keep him grounded. They took a large sip of it, demanding for the coffee to start working, to be such a great batch that it magically healed this open wound. 

Their mind requested focus, but the situation - at least the way Ryuji spun it - did as well, leaving them a rare moment of reflection, a smile even, just a ghost of one at least, as he recalled the strange fact that American things would have to be considered foreign to his lips. He was a Brit, after all, or so he told the world. Even if the Brits too tended to spoil their tea with milk and sugar. His preference remained a bitter coffee and a spiced chai. Though even with his parents his Indian roots had all but been erased by years of contempt. “Some of these drinks are just sugar and milk, though they sell them as if there is a lick of caffeine in them.” He took another sip, and realised he downed it all already. He ordered another simply by raising his mug and making eye-contact with the barista. “America has perfected the art of turning everything into a dessert,” they added, as if he liked British food any better. 

ryuji, a silent observer, casts his gaze upon beer with a blend of intrigue and amusement, his dark eyes tracing the contours of the conversation as it unfolds. veer's penchant for extracting foreign phrases appears as both a mix of charm and curiosity, a tactic that demanded reciprocity.

in the midst of their exchange, there lingers an uncanny resemblance to familial warmth. it feels like a long-lost embrace, despite the physical distance maintained between them upon the bench. veer's declaration of calling him jugaadu inspires the grin on ryuji's face, the camaraderie between two worlds bridged by a shared understanding of resilience and ingenuity.

"halal guys? i've never been." ryuji supplies, his voice a measured cadence against the backdrop of their chance encounter. the realization dawns upon him: they're both—at least ryuji is—waiting for the bus. but the spark of spontaneity within him is set to ignite. "... right now?"

“Nihongo,” Veer repeated, he loved putting strange words on his tongue, languages that weren’t his. He enjoyed the fact that he could simply force it out of people, to open up parts of themselves. It was easier when he had something to offer in trade. “Oh, I believe you. I’ve seen the writing system, now, my language has plenty of letters, but to make every word a new sign, wow, that is definitely next level. However,” he said, pointing a finger to the sky. “However, I believe that difficulty at a young age leads to greater things later on. I can see the possibilities,” they said, day-dreaming about how easy code would be. “I’ve seen what comes out of Japan, you guys are smart. I’d call you jugaadu.” 

Veer scooted closer, leaning forward to catch the other’s full expression, like an Indian uncle who didn’t know boundaries. Perhaps he’d grow to be more like his father after all. With a grin, he winked at the stranger. “Don’t get all sad on me now, yaar, we’re discussing good memories here. The US of A is not what I expected of it, and New York City certainly doesn’t live up to what Bollywood taught me, but hey, we’re here now. Might as well make the most of it.” He narrowed his eyes. “Ever had Halal Guys, yaar?” 

He hadn’t even asked if the individual was waiting for anyone or anything, he didn’t care. Veer wanted to move now, he wanted to get this nervous energy out of his body that had yet to fully take hold as he spoke - however briefly - about home. Home was only a memory, it was something that had become untouchable when he set food in the United States. He didn’t think he wanted to go back, ever, he certainly didn’t think he would be able to. “My treat,” he added, eyes shiny. 

ryuji's arched eyebrow speaks volumes, a silent testament to his amusement at zakir's suggestion. and his lips, unable to contain their burgeoning smile, betray the subtle delight that danced in the depths of his gaze. with a studied nonchalance, he peruses the digital landscape displayed on zakir's phone, his feigned curiosity masking the quiet victory that pulsed beneath his cool exterior—he had won, and they were definitely going to a diner.

the playful banter hangs in the air as the two embark on their gastronomic adventure, the city's pulse echoing their footsteps. ryuji falls into step beside his colleague, hands disappearing into the confines of his hoodie pockets in a casual gesture that belied the hunger gnawing at the edges of his consciousness.

"what gives you that impression?" ryuji's voice carries a playful lilt, although he is chagrined that he had been so easy to read.

Zakir chuckled. “Plenty American Diners are open, it would seem,” he commented, not noticing the playful scepticism, as he showed the other his phone. Not something he usually did, he got far too many texts on a daily basis from fans, people he was sort of dating, and all the likes he got on his social media apps. Yet, he only spends about an hour a day replying to them. Yet, to his luck, nothing showed up while Ryuji had a look at the map.

He had no love lost for the fatty food that could be found at diners, but he was too hungry and thirsty to fight the suggestion, and caved quickly. “Ryuji bhai, I’d almost think that you want to go to a diner,” he said, mostly in jest. He put his phone away once he found the closet one and gestured for the capo to follow him. “Yallah, let’s go then. We will have to see your fast eating skills.”

veiled beneath an easygoing demeanor, ryuji's keen perception continues to regard the woman with a mix of intrigue and caution. her poised facade, an artful dance between illusion and reality, speaks volumes about the intricate layers of deception that cloak her true intentions. though he tries not to assume this much; to assume so poorly about a complete stranger, he knows that nothing is ever truly this simple—a chance encounter, a lighter.

as her purr of gratitude lingers in the air, ryuji wonders if he's imagining the subtle undercurrents of manipulation woven into her words. behind the veil of pleasantries and smoke, a silent game of cat and mouse unfolds, each participant poised to outmaneuver the other in a delicate dance of wits and deception.

his lips quirk into a wry smile, a silent acknowledgment of the intricate web of intrigue that binds them in this moment. the familiar cadence of her questions, each word laden with hidden meanings and veiled threats, prompts him to weigh his words carefully.

"i did," comes his simple response. in the theater of their conversation, every word is a carefully calculated move, a delicate balance between revelation and concealment. "it was pretty captivating. it's actually my first show—saw the flyer and decided to finally check it out."

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐊 pride in the bloodthirsty reputation that her name carried -- helene was more than happy to play the ordinary damsel. perhaps because she was confident enough ( more like cocky enough ) to know that it was nothing more than that: a performance. even if she is simply putting on a show to blend in with the rest of the crowd, the smile she wears is certainly one of genuine appreciation for the individual's act of kindness. " much appreciated, mon cher. " the woman purrs -- utilizing the instrument to ignite the edges of her cigarette. for a moment, if he took a close enough look, he may have seen the edges of her mask illuminated in the flame's light. in the darkness of the evening, even the ugliest of souls seem beautiful.

as she takes a drag, it takes more effort than it should to conceal the smirk that threatened to spill over. she's played this game many a time before -- clinging to the very information that could make even the average citizen stop in their tracks, cause their blood to freeze: i know who you are. not only did helene make it her life's work to know as many players within the underbelly of new york city as she could for her own protection, but for the benefit of the hanging man. she was no stranger to engaging in the dirty work, walk away from any situation with blood dripping from her fingers. and while she didn't assume that by inserting herself into a conversation like this one she'd be walking into battle, she knew she had to feign innocence.

she can see the cracks in his facade, that he holds some recognition of her, just as she does for him. good. let him go running back to the man pulling the strings, tell him that she's got her eye on him.

" did you see the show this evening? " helene eventually asks, the smoke she exhales shrouding her in a manner that appears so villianous, it would have surprised even the likes of her. keep him talking. perhaps you can get something out of him. the chances are slim as helene makes it her prerogative to underestimate not a single stranger -- but the kinder she is, the quicker most people let their guard down. then again, she's well aware that ryuji majima is far from most people. " the company appears to be truly outdoing themselves this particular season. "

"got it. no scratches."

no promises, he adds to himself. his gaze traces the sinuous contours of the gaming apparatus, its surface a canvas ripe for transformation under bit's expert guidance. and as the other heaves the machine, ryuji's own hands find purchase on the cold metal. the weight of the pinball machine shifts between them, a tangible connection to a bygone era awaiting its rebirth. he takes the lead in their coordinated effort, maneuvering them through the door.

"while i like the ambition," he eventually interjects, his voice, though strained from the exertion, retains a note of pragmatic wisdom. "let's remember to be realistic about what we can actually do with this thing."

Bit positioned himself opposite, his hands finding a solid grip upon the gaming machine. He shifted his weight, his leather jacket, clinging to his form, as he surveyed the pinball machine. A wry grin played on his lips, and he heaved the machine slightly to reposition it, instructing Ryuji, "Lift from here, and watch the edge. We don't want this beauty scraping any floors or walls."

His fingers traced along the sleek surface, envisioning the transformation he had in mind. "You know," he began, the gravelly timbre of his voice carrying a touch of excitement, "I'm thinking we don't keep it too vintage. Let's bring it into the new age, add a couple of new bells and whistles. A touch sensor would be cool" Bit's mind raced with ideas of LED lights, a revamped sound system, and perhaps a few custom modifications to enhance the gameplay. "Just a wave of the hand and you can start a new game." The pinball machine, once a relic, was about to undergo a metamorphosis under Bit's vision. He chuckles in delight as he starts, bending with his knees to lift.

as rakesh recounts his fondness for black coffee, a simple yet unwavering choice amid life's chaos, he finds himself nodding in quiet acknowledgment. ryuji could almost taste the palpable bitterness lingering in the air—a bitter reminder of the harsh realities they both faced. and on the other hand, he remembers that black coffee is very consciously associated with adulthood in japan, as it is specifically marketed as an adult taste.

curiously, ryuji finds himself at odds with bitter things; the acidic aftermath of black coffee doesn't sit well with his stomach. instead, he finds contentment in his indulgent, albeit overpriced, artisanal iced latte with oat milk. "some of these drinks have way too much sugar in them," he comments, half in agreement. "leave it to america to turn coffee into a dessert."

Rakesh took another sip from the coffee, even if it was already too late. The caffeine did nothing  more than drive the anxiety further down into his bones, though he hoped that once it had settled there, they would merely have their edge back, not the unplanned anger that always showed up when they least needed it. Instead of appearing at the most relaxing moments. 

They pushed the images of punching someone until blood was sprouting from their nose down, and instead further assaulted their own leg, at least the pain and the pull of muscle kept them sane. Despite not feeling like the rage was seeping out through the friction. It was simply still there. His throat felt thick, blocked by something. He blinked a few times and attempted a smile, attempting to be a courteous enough human being. Perhaps if he thought of Ryuji as a dog, perhaps a shiba-inu, with two black eyes looking at him, a tongue lolling, triangle ears and a big snout. He took a deep breath. “I have always been a black coffee kind of person,” they said. “Only once did I make the mistake to think some sugar in my coffee might help me stay more away, but it was disgusting.”

teamwork, he echoes to himself, entertained by the prospect. it was more akin to a cornering than anything, though he digresses momentarily. the dance of subtle amusement persistently flickers in the depths of his amber eyes, like a flame unyielding. "...yeah, i got nothing to help us with this." (not to mention, ryuji doesn't have much furniture in his place to account for.)

this could go either really wrong... or just decently.

what are the odds they can make this endeavor look like a walk in the park before it verges on embarrassing? "alright." ryuji inhales deeply, gathering himself. his sleeves deftly roll up before he makes his way purposefully to one side of the machine. "i got this side—you got the other?"

Bit's eyes flicker with a hint of amusement, a subtle mixture of mirth evident in the play of shadows across his features. A smirk graces his lips, and he tilts his head, allowing contemplation to settle in the lines of his expression. "Didn't order a dolly- extra funds that I didn't feel like splurging," he remarks, his words accompanied by a casual shrug. The prospect of carrying the machine appears as just another routine task, as if he were accustomed to handling motorcycles and other weighty machinery with the same nonchalance.

Shifting his gaze towards Ryuji, a silent acknowledgment marks the gravity of the impending task. "If a dolly or any other fancy contraptions happen to be lying around, we could opt for the easy way out. Otherwise," Bit pauses, infusing the air with a challenge that lingers in his tone, "it seems like we're in for a bit of heavy lifting." The notion seems to invigorate Bit, a shared challenge sparking a subtle glint in his mocha-hued eyes. "Teamwork, my friend, makes the dream work, doesn't it?"

[　𝙻𝙾𝙰𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶 ...　]　HEADCANON.　➔　MAJIMA,　RYUJI.

ryuji's back tattoo, the nobori-ryū (ascending dragon), underwent a meticulous three-year creation process, incrementally expanding as he ascended the ranks within the yokohama underground. it is also in nukibori style, without any background.

it has a silver color scheme, with silver dragons symbolizing the purity of heart. in yakuza culture, ascending dragon motifs are found on those near the top of the chain. in short: the artist who decided on what tattoo to give ryuji saw that he would do great things. in addition to all the above, the dragon itself represents strength and vitality.

clutched tightly inside the dragon's claw is a pearl—a symbol of its power. ryuji's pursuit is not one of power acquisition or dominance over others; rather, his strength serves as a tool for protection.

YOKOHAMA RYUSEI and YOSHITAKA YURIKO as SHINOZAKI RUI and KASHIWAGI AKARI YOUR EYES TELL | きみの瞳（め）が問いかけている (2020) dir. Miki Takahiro

an amused brow lifts at his colleague's suggestions, and he makes it a point to give him a thorough once-over and make a face. "okay, like every american diner has those things," he quips back with a hint of playful skepticism. he leans in to look at the options on zakir's phone, quickly scanning the list. he makes it a point to skip every japanese restaurant he saw—he has yet to experience anything in the states that feels close to home. the disappointment of every bite could kill him.

at once, it all unravels: ryuji's smile twitches feebly. the hunger festers, burgeoning within. his bias is unearthed. "should we just go to a diner?" feigning resignation, a tinge of eagerness is present in his otherwise quiet voice. "it'll be quick."

Zakir smirked, pushing his sunglasses down his nose a bit to drive the point home. He really wouldn’t need them if not for augmentation in his eyes, and he’d gotten so used to it that without glasses the world was simply too bright or too natural. He wore sunglasses outside and he had a pair of pink-coloured glasses for inside dark places. It gave him the type of look he wanted to convey, while hiding what his eyes were actually capable of. Very few people knew about it. 

“Wallah, I could eat anything,” he complained, though truly, Zakir believed Indian was the best food that existed and would always pick Indian food - even the Americanized one - over anything else. But he wasn’t picky, he’d eat what the world provided - as long as it was halal. He got his phone out, pressed a few buttons to draw up a map of the neighbourhood and scan the area for some breakfast places that were open. 

“Not much to choose from,” he said, frowning. “Pancakes? Waffles? French toast?” he asked, as he drew up the map to his augmentation, which would lead him directly where he would want to go, without having to use his phone again. 

ryuji's gaze lifts from his libation, casting an appraising glance upon the unfolding scene of what he presumes to be the most arduous date to sit through in the history of dates. his brows find themselves knitting in the middle in a gesture of sympathy and cringe, but he promptly averts his eyes to avoid the label of an inadvertent people-watcher. (what else could he do at a bar by himself?)

the scenario takes its unforeseen twist, and he finds himself approached by one party. while harboring a sneaking suspicion about what her impending pitch, he remains willing to entertain the proposition.

a sigh of self-preservation rips clean through him; lifts and drops his shoulders and takes the tension with it. "sure," he responds, demeanor unreadable, "hit me."

Location: The Olive Branch Martini Bar Status: Closed ( @creophagos )

Ana smiled and waved the date over. He looked nothing like his profile and she had just realized she was going to have to sit here for the next few hours with him. Great. So much for a useful night for memory making. She had already ordered herself a vodka soda. He ordered his own drink and she threw hers back before his arrived.

After about thirty minutes of the most boring conversation she had ever been a part of, she excused herself. Anastasia came out of the washroom with a game plan. She would have to find someone who was willing to help her out first, though.

She smiled when she saw someone she didn't recognize. "Hi." The blonde said softly with a sly smile. "I have a proposition for you and I'm willing to buy all your drinks for the rest of the night if you agree. Plus I might even throw in a pizza if we succeed."

what a pleasant surprise, ryuji muses to himself. he hadn't expected the capitulation. and as his gaze falls on the other, he can't help but view him as a dog walking on its hind feet.

shoulders scissor back, giving nothing but the impression that ryuji was at ease—as though he were enjoying this moment with an old friend. "same." the corner of his lips simply quirks up in a smile, both hands clasping on the table in plain view for rakesh to confirm: he had absolutely nothing to hide.

in lieu of a potentially tense silence between rivals, he reaches for inanities. anything that would keep a ball rolling, even if it was punctured, deflated, and smothered into the ground. "i really like iced lattes," he comments, albeit in intolerably affectionate tones. "wasn't much of a black coffee kind of guy."

Let’s just be civil. Rakesh knew the other was right, he knew his anger was misplaced, his rage given to a circumstance that had nothing to do with it. Just a general rage towards the world, like an animal stuck in an invisible cage, they wanted to throw claws around and hurt as many as they possibly could. How they’d come in life so far without it having ended in bloodshed and their own death, they wouldn’t know. They’d fought so often with people who had no beef with them, covered it up or found a reason afterwards. 

They were in a cafe, amongst people. They could not fight here. 

“Fine,” Rakesh said, hiding a hand under the table just so they could drive nails into his flesh. They wanted to hurt something so badly that hurting themself seemed like the only valuable option. “Let’s be civil.” He took a deep breath, the coffee back to his lips. “I just need caffeine.”

"yeah, let me check." he delves in the recesses of his hoodie pocket. the emergence of a zppo lighter defies expectations, for ryuji isn't one to savor the act of smoking—it was an infrequent indulgence, a concession to conformity due to the environment he was often in. this particular lighter, a silent companion nestled within his pocket, was reserved for moments like these—instances when his colleagues sought its flame. "here."

the exchange of the lighter marks a subtle interlude, a moment where ryuji refrains from a visible double-take but allows a lingering glance. in the passing of the lighter, an unspoken connection unfolds, and a faint sense of recognition plays across his features. they were strangers, never having met or traversed the same paths, yet she bears a semblance of familiarity—an elusive mosaic in the gallery of his memory. the contemplation of this puzzle reflects in his gaze as he regards her, a silent query etching on the shadows of his face.

he doesn't say anything else.

he averts his gaze, modestly lowering his raw umber eyes to the ground, a faint, idle scuff of his shoe against the asphalt underneath. in the event that this interaction bears any connection to work, caution becomes his imperative. he needs to err on the side of caution; needs to play it safe. like others in their field of criminal enterprise, ryuji was never truly safe wandering the streets of new york as a civilian. he was never free from his connections. to believe otherwise, he is reminded in this moment, would be sheer folly.

                             @creophagos

LOCATION: the outskirts of the new york city ballet company, evening FOR: ryuji majima

𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 of criminal enterprises that litter the city ( the sheer amount had birthed a keen talent for observation in helene ) -- the woman took great effort to know every piece of the puzzle, every player in the game. she had to, if she were to deem someone a potential threat. not that there were many these days, but helene could never be too sure what was on the horizon. the waters were calm, operations could run smoothly without any interruption. it's not that she wanted for things to fall apart -- she just wanted to be prepared. her preparations, although occasionally self-indulgent, had been what had gotten her to where she was now. if it ain't broke, as these americans seemed to say, don't fuckin' fix it.

with wealth comes status, and with status comes the need to make an occasional appearance within society -- so the rest of them don't forget you. helene has always admired the ballet: the elegance, the passion. thus, this engagement is one she plans on attending without a fight. the performance was beautiful and afterward, she found herself needing to take pause for a moment before vacating her seat. it was one of the simple pleasures of life -- art, especially when viewed from the box of luxury. and yet, she felt a feeling when it was all over that could only be comparable to a hangover. another distraction over, it was time to put her walls back up.

people watching: one sport that all new yorkers seemed to mutually enjoy. helene was still hesitate to call herself one of them -- considering her roots. and yet, she found herself relishing in the national pasttime as she blankly searched her pockets for her lighter: monogramed, of course. shit. she can see the flashback in her mind now... of her not putting the lighter in either her jacket or her purse. thus, she was out of luck.. or was she?

helene notices the other face immediately -- even if she can't place a name to it right away. and yet, she finds herself in a moment of vulnerability as she rolls her shoulders back in a stance of confidence. " excusez-moi.. " she begins, holding up the unlit cigarette as if to emphasize her predicament without saying a single word. " you wouldn't happen to have a lighter in your possession, would you? it appears while i thought i did, i do not. "

a hand raises to knead his thumb to one temple in consideration of their proposed side quest, and it doesn't take long. ryuji yields when it comes to two things: adventure and friendship. both seem to have fallen into his lap... or shown up right outside of his door, rather.

a chuckle, half-amusement, half-disbelief, startles from him and raises his shoulders, but it's a sure indication that ryuji has acquiesced. "alright, it'll stay here." he surveys the current state of the machine, the million-dollar question dawning upon him. his gaze is flitting again, cogs turning and smoke coming out of his ears.

a bashful humor underscores his tone, the words coming out an octave above silence, "are we—can the two of us carry it?"

"I know, and I managed to snag it at a more than reasonable price." He attempts to contain his smugness, yet his eyes betray a cocktail of pride and excitement.

His laughter resonates through the air as they catch on to the surprise. The playful satisfaction twinkling in his eyes hints at the enjoyment he derives from successfully pulling off the unexpected. The inquiry about seeking consultation before bringing in the pinball machine receives a quintessentially Bit response – a casual disregard for formalities. His inclination toward spontaneity and the unpredictable outweighs the need for prior approval, favoring the philosophy of seeking forgiveness rather than permission. He nonchalantly shrugs, "Thought we could tackle it together." Bit's gravelly voice, laced with a teasing undertone, underscores his delight in orchestrating surprises. "There are a couple of wobbly legs, and some of the bulbs could use replacing." A thorough cleaning, tune-up, and polish are also on the agenda before the machine can bask in the light of day once again. "Besides, you've got the perfect spot for it here." He pauses, "Don't tell me I have to take it back. I don't want to pay for another rental..."